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Every nice girl in our school had an admirer; they knew our hours for walking out, and almost always passed us on the promenade: 'Schoenes Maedchen, we used to hear them say. I was excessively happy at Bonn!" "And where are you now?" I inquired. "Oh! at chose," said she.
"You told me to stay here till you came back," I said, scarce able to keep down the tears that started to my eyes. "Well, my little Maedchen?" "And and I might have gone up to Monsieur Maurice, after all?" My father looked at me gravely poured out a second glass of kirsch drew his chair to the front of the fire, and said: "I don't know about that, Gretchen."
The "treffliches Maedchen" was perhaps too kind-hearted; her emotions were too voluminous for so small a house, her personality seemed to spread all over it. She would sing Hungarian love-ditties at her work; and somehow calling these "folksongs" did not help matters. Also, alas, she distributed about the house strange odors of raw onions, boiled cabbage and perspiration.
"I have read of a poor prisoner who broke his heart because the gaoler killed a spider he loved," said I, through my tears. My father's features relaxed into a smile. "But do you flatter yourself that Monsieur Maurice loves my little Maedchen as much as that poor prisoner loved his spider?" he said, taking me by the ear. "Of course he does and a hundred thousand times better!"
"I should be very sorry," I faltered; "but".... "But what?" "I would rather he went away, and was happy." The King stooped down and kissed me on the brow. "That, my little Maedchen, is the answer of a true friend," he said, gravely and kindly. "If your Monsieur Maurice deserves to go free, he shall have his liberty. You have our royal word for it.
A sudden thought flashed upon me. I pulled him back, out of the sentry's hearing. "Oh, father!" I cried eagerly, "will you not ask the King to let Monsieur Maurice free?" My father shook his head. "Nay," he said, "I must not do that, my little Maedchen. And look you not a word that the King is coming here to-night. It would only make the prisoner restless, and could avail nothing.
"But supposing he has no books!" suggested I, with the precocious wisdom of nine years of age. "Then we must beg some, or borrow some, my little Maedchen," replied my father, gravely; "for books are the main solace of the captive, and he who hath them not lies in a twofold prison." "He shall have my picture-book of Hartz legends!" said I, in a sudden impulse of compassion.
Again the post-horn sounded the "Drei Reuter;" again the carriage stopped before the door, and the count descended, giving to every one a gift like the "Maedchen aus der Fremde," and for the sixth time rolled away. "We are bewitched; it is a ghost from the infernal regions!" groaned the steward. "I cannot abide it any longer I shall die!" said the second waiter.
Here a shrill trumpet-call in the court-yard, followed by the prolonged roll of many drums, warned me that evening parade was called, and that as soon as it was over my father would be home and looking for me. So I started up, and put out my hand to say good-bye. Monsieur Maurice took it between both his own. "I don't like parting from you so soon, little Maedchen," he said.
But he crushed it in his hand without looking at it, and waved me back authoritatively. "At once!" I cried; "at once!" The gentleman in the blue frock stopped and smiled. "Is this your little girl, Colonel Bernhard?" he asked. My father replied by a low bow. The strange gentleman beckoned me to draw nearer. "A golden-haired little Maedchen!" said he.
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